


Never Say Die

by Zelos



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bets, Community: avengerkink, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He paused at the threshold, making a sharp gesture at the maps. “Don’t get lost at sea. I’d never be able to collect.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Say Die

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=9877381#t9877381) at avengerkink:
>
>> Howard Stark was convinced that Steve Rogers is still alive despite the fact that he disappeared into the freezing oceans. He was so convinced that he bet one dollar (it's the spirit of the bet) to then Agent Nick Fury that Steve is alive.
>> 
>> The day after Steve was found alive, Fury left the dollar on Howard's grave.

“You’re a fool, Stark,” Fury pronounced with exasperated disgust.

Howard Stark saluted him with his glass of whiskey. “And the brightest mind this side of the galaxy.” But his eyes were tired, the words held no bite.

Fury sent a sidelong glance at the papers and maps scattered about Howard’s desk, all meticulously marked and noted with Howard’s neat, blocky script. Howard was planning his route again. Where he’d gone, where he planned to go, winds and currents, where it was inaccessible. Thorough. Meticulous.

Howard Stark was meticulous about his work, but nothing else.

Howard noticed him looking. The corner of Howard’s mouth tipped up in a bare ghost of a smile. This was far more humour than anyone got out of Howard Stark nowadays, but four shots of whiskey and talk about his favourite hero still worked to soften the edges, at least a little. Even Fury wouldn’t have gotten away with calling him a fool otherwise—Howard was _years_ his senior by every metric imaginable.

Still, Howard’s next words brooked no argument. “He’s not dead.”

 _Fool’s errand_ , but saying that aloud would spark yet another repeat of the endless debate: Howard insisting that Steve Rogers was not dead, that he could be revived once found. Fury could not argue with the math and science; he’d never met Rogers, never worked on the Serum in its perfected form. Hard enough to counter Stark when you had the facts; impossible when you didn’t. Howard had easily 20, 30 years of experience over him in this.

It was amazing so many people boast about “20 years of experience” when in reality those people just repeated one year of experience 20 times.

Fury stole another look at Howard: the lines in his face, the white in his hair, the way his hands trembled slightly on his glass. Even if Howard was right, that Rogers was frozen and could be thawed again, as good as new—well, this wasn’t the same world Rogers left. Steve Rogers was a relic of the war, a young man who’d found glory and immortality in history and the stories. Nothing was the same as before— _Stark_ wasn’t the same. Howard Stark was no longer the charming civvie who fought against the Nazi’s and held the world’s hopes in his hands. What the hell did he expect Rogers to come back to, even if Rogers ain’t dead?

“I’ll bet you a dollar that he ain’t dead,” Howard added finally, a thin attempt at levity. Dark eyes—still sharp, even in his old age—flashed in warning, the brittle shadows coming back around the softened edges of drink.

Fury snorted. “A _dollar?_ Millions made in contracts in just these few months, and you want to bet me a _dollar?_ I know inflation doesn’t affect you much, Stark, but _really_.”

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Howard shot back, and the wry smile looked odd on his face—as if it wasn’t his own. Too amused, too broad…too _young_.

Fury shook his head and straightened, heading for the door. There was no point. The fool’d chase his ghosts until the day he died.

He paused at the threshold, making a sharp gesture at the maps. “Don’t get lost at sea. I’d never be able to collect.”

“I’m sure Tony could spare a dollar out of the estate,” Howard called out from behind him.

Fury rolled his eye.

 

 _This had better be good_ , but no man this side of the Pacific called up Director Nick Fury at 3:07 in the morning if it wasn’t good. “Fury.”

“They found him,” Coulson’s voice was barely beyond an awed whisper. “Sir, _they found Captain America_.”

“And? Is he alive? He’s no use as a fancy popsicle!”

“I think so. There’s protocols, we can avoid rewarming collapse. Director Stark left detailed notes.”

 _Of course he did._ Fury pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

For all of Howard Stark’s riches, both before and after the war, for all the tailored tuxedos and showers of gold (yes, really) Howard has always seemed far more comfortable in worn clothing and up to his elbows in grease. Too much of a control freak to let others do the work, perhaps. Even when he became much more a mastermind behind the scenes than the mechanic on the floor, Howard tinkered as much as he could.

The marble statuary didn’t suit him. And the angel? More for Maria than him, certainly. The whole thing felt far too still, too regal for Howard Stark.

_At ease, soldier._

_…you gonna be okay?_

Fury’s shoes scraped dully on the flagstones in front of the grave. He brushed a finger over the severe lettering in the stone, kept carefully clean by the cemetery staff. Then, down on one knee, he laid down one crisp dollar bill, fresh from the United States Mint.

“You son of a bitch,” Fury said softly. “You win.”


End file.
